The Scarlet Swan
by bundysbaby
Summary: A couple of swells visit a broken down PI when their valuable Swan gets lifted.


I was in my office, takin' a poor man's shower. You know the kind. A couple of judicious swipes of Ban deodorant and a few splashes of water on my mug. I could have used some toothpaste to get the taste of old ashtrays out of my mouth. Instead, I opted for a swallow of the hair of the dog that bit me.

The rotgut burned like hell going down, but it cleared my head. Sinuses, too. I stuck the bottle back in my desk. No need for Margery to find it. She'd nag like a wife and make my life a living hell for the next couple of days.

The sign on the door outside said Jim Frayne, Private Eye. It was going to say Jim Frayne, Busted if we didn't get a job soon. All I had the past couple of weeks were a few bored housewives lookin' to see if their husbands were cheating on them.

Of course, they were.

I hate domestic cases.

I was just reaching in my drawer for another swig when Margery Trask burst into the office. She's an older woman, trim, and nice looking; runs the office and tries to run my life. She took a sniff and frowned.

Man, I should have hired her as an investigator instead of a receptionist.

"We got a hot one in the front room, boss." She grabbed my jacket from the chair where I must have thrown it last night when I stumbled in.

"Spent the night in the office again?" She arched those perfectly manicured eyebrows as she helped me into it.

"Not that it's any of your business," I sniped back as she tried to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Here. You smell like a bar." She handed me a couple pieces of Juicy Fruit gum. I stuffed them in my mouth and began to chew. "Try not to act like a jerk." Marge stepped out of the office and almost right back in, ushering in a well-dressed couple.

My first thought was what the hell are these two doing in this part of town? It ain't Hell's Kitchen here, but it ain't the Copacabana, either. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Martin Belden. From upstate." Margery took care of the niceties.

"Pleased to meetcha." I stuck out my hand, but they both looked at it as if I was handing them a cobra or something. I dropped my hand and wondered what these two swells wanted with a two-bit private eye like me.

"Have a seat."

The dame looked at the chairs and sniffed. Man, she was some hot cookie. She was stacked like a brick shithouse. Mrs. Martin Belden had long black hair in one of those snood things women are fond of stuffing their hair in. Diamonds sparkled on her ears and neck, good ice, too. Her lips were as red as the Coca-Cola signs around town. And her gams went up to there. Her shoulders were warmed by a white ermine stole. She was one hot mama.

"We'll stand, thank you, Mr. Frayne." Martin Belden's bright blue peepers were icy, and his voice ground out like a rusty pipe organ. He was about five-ten or eleven and his hand hovered on his wife's elbow.

Hell, if I had a broad who looked like that, I'd keep her locked up in the house. "How can I help you folks?" If they weren't going to sit, well, I was.

The dame looked me straight in the eyes, and that's when I noticed hers were an unusual blue-violet. "Have you ever heard of The Scarlet Swan?" she asked. I just knew she figured me for some dumbass, so I played along.

"No, but I heard of pink flamingoes."

"Not quite in the same league, Mr. Frayne." Mrs. Belden sniffed at me. She removed her gloves, and I could see the enormous rock sitting there on her third finger, left hand. She tapped the gloves against her other hand. "Tell him, Marty." She walked over to my window, staring out between the blinds. Not that she'd have much of a view, except for a garbage-filled alley and a couple of souses.

I don't think the window was cleaned since the First World War.

Martin Belden coughed, and my attention swung back to him. "My wife's maiden name was Lynch. Diana Lynch," he announced, like she was the President of the United States or something.

Marge came to stand behind me, and she put a hand on my shoulder in warning. "You know, Boss. The society Lynches. They're always being written up in Suzy Knickerbocker's column." Marge pressed down with one finger. I figured she knew if I said what I thought about fancy society dames and their whipped husbands, and a hack writing a column nobody reads, a nice fat fee would blow right out that door.

"Exactly, Miss Trask." Belden nodded in approval. "My father-in-law, Edward Lynch, bought The Scarlet Swan and gave it to my wife as a wedding present."

The knockout turned from the window. "Someone took it."

"Your red swan was stolen?" I mean, who cares if somebody pinched her swan?

Belden gave me a look like I was jingle-brained. "Not a real swan."

The dish weighed in. You could tell who wore the pants in that family. "Do you know what the rarest diamond in the world is, Mr. Frayne?"

What did she think I was, an ice connoisseur? "The Hope Diamond."

"Not even close. The rarest diamond is a red diamond. The natural color is deeper, richer, more brilliant than the finest ruby. Only about twenty of them have ever been mined. The Scarlet Swan is the biggest, at thirty flawless karats. It's worth about a million dollars." She shrugged a shoulder, causing the stole to slip a bit. "I want it back."

A million smackeroos. Hell, I'd want it back, too. I'd also want to sleep with it and make love to it. "Did you call the coppers?"

"No. We want this kept as quiet as possible." Belden flushed, and I could see him begin to sweat. Somethin' was up.

" _He_ wants this as quiet as possible. You see, we think we know who made off The Scarlet Swan."

"And who's that?" Man, I needed a cigarette, but I gave up smokin'. Drinkin' was much better.

"We had a chauffeur and maid, Thomas and Celia Delanoy. They disappeared right after The Scarlet Swan went missing," Belden explained.

"Along with his sister, Trixie. That's why it should be kept quiet."

"What you're telling me is you think this broad, Trixie, skipped out with the goods and her accomplices were the hired help?" Sounded pretty lame to me. "And she's your sister?"

No wonder Belden was sweatin' bullets.

"That wouldn't be an easy item to fence."

The dish opened her yap again. "They wouldn't have to fence or pawn it, Mr. Frayne. Both the Delanoys and Trixie had access to many, shall we say, private collectors, who would be willing to pay top dollar for the Swan."

In other words, the doll was telling me the upper-crust swells are just as apt to flimflam and cons as the rest of us down in the gutter.

Like I didn't know that.

"When did you discover The Swan was glommed?"

"Two days ago," Belden sighed. "We have a charity event coming up, and Diana opened the safe to see if The Swan needed cleaning. It was gone, case and all."

"What type of a safe? Where is it located? Who has the combination?" My questions were like bursts of a Tommy-gun.

"It's more like a walk-in vault." Those cherry-red lips caught my attention. "My daddy had it installed into the house when he built it for us several years ago. Only Marty and I have the combination."

"Do you have it written anywhere?"

"Only in our safety deposit box in the bank. Sleepyside Savings and Loan. Marty's father, Peter Belden, is the President of the bank."

Now that was pretty interestin'.

"Did uh, this chick Trixie and your employees know about The Scarlet Swan and the vault?"

"Celia did, she's been in it several times helping my wife pick out pieces of jewelry when we have events to attend. Tom Delanoy was never in there, but I suppose Celia might have told him about it."

"What about your sister?"

"Trixie, uh…" Belden ran a finger around his collar.

"My sister-in-law knew about The Scarlet Swan and all the other pieces. She pretended she wasn't interested in all that girly stuff, as she called it. Then she goes and steals it!"

"We don't know for sure," Belden began, in defense of his sister.

"Marty, you have to be logical. The three of them disappear the same time as The Scarlet Swan. Put two and two together." The doll frowned at him. She wanted to put the finger on this Trixie, and he didn't.

"We were in our penthouse on Park Avenue for a few days," Lips continued. "Celia and Tom were with us. Plenty of time for Trixie to get in the vault grab The Swan. We came back home to Sleepyside in the limo. The next morning, the three of them were gone."

"And you think they vamoosed with the goods. Why do you think they ended up in the Big Apple?"

"The police called to inform us that the limo they took off in was found in Harlem. My wife thinks they're here to get rid of The Swan if they haven't already."

"Harlem, huh?" Yeah, I could see them holing up in a cheap hotel as they tried to fence the ice. "Do you have any photographs of The Scarlet Swan and these mugs?"

Belden handed me a thin file. I flipped it open on my desk and whistled. The rock was as big as a pigeon egg and as red as the blood leaking from some palooka's nose. Round diamonds encircled it and it was attached to a long necklace of similar diamonds.

Hell, I'd crib it, too, if I had a chance.

I handed the photo to Marge and went on to the next. It was a typical wedding photo of a man and woman. He was in a dark suit and she had on a white dress. Nothin' stood out. Nothin' screamed these two were bunco artists. They just looked like a hick and his girl getting married in the sticks.

I went to the next photo.

And something strange happened.

I felt like somebody pasted me one in the stomach.

The image was a babe, and oh, what a babe. She was blonde like her brother, but her hair was long and curly around the face of a laughin' angel. If I thought Diana Belden was built, well, the doll in this picture made her look like an ironing board.

I could feel things stirrin' that had no place wakin' up while I was in the office with a couple of swells for clients. My fingers itched to touch those curls and I wanted to do the horizontal mamba with her.

Unlike Diana Belden, this Trixie doll wasn't dressed in glad rags. She wasn't dressed like a floozy, either, just a well-stuffed shirt and a pair of pants. She was a fresh-faced milkmaid, and I wanted to wipe that sexy-innocent look off her puss and replace it with satisfaction.

"Boss?" Marge's voice brought me back to reality.

"Okay." I flipped over Trixie's picture, so I wouldn't be distracted. "Do you think it's possible that your father could be in on the con?" I directed the question to Belden, who paled.

"No, my father is an honorable man."

Yeah. I heard that one before.

"Did this Trixie live with you?"

Lips took the lead. "No. She lives at home with my in-laws and her younger brother, Rob. My other brother-in-law, Brian, is the town physician and he's married to the Wheeler heiress. Madeleine Wheeler, known as Honey."

Hell, even I heard of the Wheelers. Big moola there, maybe even more than the Lynches. I half-suspected the dish's old man was in some sort of competition with Matthew Wheeler. This Trixie chick was surrounded by rich swells. Maybe being the daughter of the president of a bank just wasn't enough.

"He'll take the case," Marge informed the couple. "Fifty dollars a day plus expenses. Five hundred for a retainer." Both she and I held our breath to see if Mart and Diana Belden would bite.

"Great. Thank you." Neither of them batted an eye. Belden pulled a thick wad of bills out of his jacket and peeled off five C-notes. Just like that.

"Thanks. I'll be in contact when I have somethin' to jaw about."

"I'll get your contact information at my desk," Margery added, as she escorted the Beldens from my office. Man, Diana Belden had an exit as stunnin' as her entrance. That keister was made to grab. Marge shut the door, and I fingered the cabbage like it was a long-lost lover. Five C-notes!

Marge danced back into the room. "They didn't even blink," she chortled. "Five big ones, Boss! We can catch up on the rent, pay the phone bill and draw a salary for once."

"Yeah. Whaddya know about all those rich people from that newspaper?" I wanted to get started.

"The Lynches are loaded. Edward Lynch made his money the old-fashioned way, with some sort of invention. He's in with the Irish Mob, fancies himself a player. Wife is a social climber, but the dough provides a great entry into polite society. According to the rags, Belden comes from a respected family in that hick town they live in, but he married up. Dough-wise. The nearest neighbors are the Wheelers and the Beldens. The Wheelers have a huge house. Lynch built two mansions, one he calls Lynch Mob and the other for his daughter, and her husband called Amethyst Acres."

"Irish Mob, huh? No wonder Belden doesn't want his ball-and-chain to cry to Pops."

"Yeah, I figured." Marge gave me a look. You know the kind. Nag, nag, nag. "Lay off the booze, Boss. We got a goldmine here."

888888888888

It was too late to start my investigation, so I decided I needed to pay a visit to my favorite canary, Dot Murray. She was a good-time gal at the Six Aces, occasionally warblin' out an off-key tune. Otherwise, she worked the room, getting the swells to buy her cheap Champagne but paying top dollar. We had a deal, no strings attached and a good time to be had by all.

The joint was jumpin' when I walked in. Dot was up on stage, killin' a song. I nodded to the bouncer and found a table. A few minutes later, Deedee brought me my poison of choice. A long cold beer and a shot of rotgut.

There was a smatterin' of applause when Dot finished, but I wasn't sure if it was for her butcherin' the song or the revealin' dress she had pasted on her body. Dot gave me a wink as she left the stage, and I knew she'd be joinin' me in a minute or two.

I dropped the rotgut into the beer and took a long drink waitin' for her. A little between-the-sheets action and I'm sure I'd get that Trixie dame out of my head.

"Haven't seen you around in a while, stranger." Dot sat next to me. The lights were low as she bent towards me, fingerin' a butt she expected me to light. It also had the added effect of allowing me a good peep at her boobs.

"Business. You know." I lit her cigarette, and she inhaled deeply, then exhaled a cloud of smoke into the already hazy room.

"Yeah. I know." She placed a hand on my thigh. "My place after the next set?"

I looked into her pretty face. It was what I'd come for, a roll in the hay with no strings attached. But I suddenly saw Trixie Belden's fresh, beautiful face instead of Dot's.

 _What the hell?_

"Yeah. I'll be waitin'."

I could hear Marge in my head when I ordered another drink. Damn. Like any good private dick, I people watched while I was waiting for Dot to finish scammin' the patrons of this fine establishment. She did another couple of torch songs, which sounded more like cats mating, but the bums here were thrilled.

I thought about the case, too. Who am I kiddin'? I thought about Martin Belden's sister. About her laughing eyes and luscious mouth. I wondered how a milkmaid from the boonies would taste. I hadn't had any cow juice since my Ma spiked my baby bottle with a little gin.

Where would I go if I just pinched a priceless piece of ice and I needed to get rid of it? Lay low for a while, of course., while I made my contacts. How did Tom and Celia Delanoy fit into all of this? Three on a con ain't the wisest thing to do.

And Lynch was Irish Mob. How did that fit in? Belden seemed worried about his sister, and he should be. If Lips went and jawed to her old man, he'd likely put a hit out on the blonde. Another thought intruded in my slightly muddled brain.

Could Belden be involved? Where did he get that wad of cabbage? His wife held the purse strings, or rather her old man. Maybe he was tired of being a kept man. Maybe…

"Ready to go, sugar?"

The Midwestern accent grated on my nerves. I didn't even hear Dot approach the table and her hand on my shoulder startled me. "Let's go, Doll," I growled.

Her crib was a couple of blocks from Six Aces, so we hoofed it there. In the harsh glow of the street lamps, Dot looked older and worn. A couple of boozehounds let go with catcalls, and Dot ate it up. She was still a fine-looking babe, but the late nights, smokin', drinkin' and whorin' were startin' to show.

"Know anything about the Irish Mob?" I was sure she would. A dame like her can pick up a lot of info just by listenin'.

"Who wants to know?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"Workin' on a case."

"I don't want The Big Sleep," she muttered. "Those mugs are dangerous, Jim." Dot stopped under a street light and looked up at me. "Ya hear me? Don't get mixed up with them."

"I'm not." Why did broads nag, nag, nag all the time? "Like I said, I have a job, and I need to find out a couple of things about them."

Dot shrugged. "Occasionally some of the boys show up at Six Aces. Never with their wives. You can tell they're packin'. Tip real good, flash lots of cabbage."

"Ed Lynch ever come in?"

Her eyes widened. "The guy from upstate, fancies himself a big boss? Not a lot, but he does come in. Usually with one or two enforcers. He talks a lot about his daughter who married some cat from upstate whose family came over on the Mayflower. Seems real proud. Good tipper."

"You don't say."

"Yeah. He's always braggin' how his daughter is more beautiful than any of the Hollywood stars. I get the feeling the missus is more interested in making it with all those stuck-up swells than she is in taking care of him."

I wasn't stupid. I could read between the lines. He visited Dot in one of the private rooms in the back of the club.

We hoofed it up the stairs to her fourth-floor apartment. She unlocked the door, and I followed her in. Her place was done up in what I like to think of as early American whorehouse. Red flocked wallpaper, lots of pretend shiny gold things. I'm sure she thought it was the cat's meow.

Almost as soon we shut the door behind us, she reached behind and unzipped her dress, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. With an invitation like that, I would normally be on her in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

Tonight, though, it just felt rather sleazy. I let her pull my head down to hers as she planted her greasy lips on mine. She didn't taste of sunshine and strawberries; rather, cigarettes and cheap whiskey. Dot pressed her body against mine, soft, yielding curves, and for a moment I imagined that it was Trixie Belden making the moves on me. I even whispered it, her name. "Trixie."

Dot pulled away from me, an ugly expression on her pretty puss. "Trixie? Who's Trixie?" She demanded. As if she had some sort of claim to me.

"Nobody you need to concern yourself about, Doll."

She stormed off, grabbing a cigarette and lighter from a nearby table. "Oh, yeah, big boy? It certainly is a concern of mine when you come to my house expecting something and call me by another broad's name."

"I thought we had a deal. No expectations on either side." Damn. I didn't want to get into this with her now. She sounded like a naggin' fishwife. Marge did enough of that at the office.

"Maybe I had expectations. You been coming to see me a long time, Jim. I could've been with other guys. Guys that have a hell of a lot more money than some broken down PI."

"I'd never stop you. We had fun together, that's all." What the hell was she thinkin'? She wasn't the kind of girl I'd bring home to mom. Hell, I wouldn't even bring her to the corner craps game.

"Can she satisfy you like I can? Come on, Jimmy. We got something special." Dot took a different method, cozying up to me and rubbing herself against me. Maybe at one time it would've worked, but for now, all she did was make me want to go home and take a long, hot shower.

"I think I better be goin'. I'll see you around, doll. Thanks for the info." I left her standing there, turning the air blue.

I just hope she wasn't going to be a problem. I had a bad feelin' about this. You know what they say about a woman scorned.

I hoofed it back to Six Aces and hopped in my old boiler. It was late, or early, depending on your perspective. I figured I could get in a shower and a few Zs before I started my investigation.

My flat was in an old building about a mile or so from the office, which was lucky for me when the heap suffered one of its frequent breakdowns. Maybe now I could afford to get it fixed. Yeah, good thought. I'll drop it off to the mechanic in the morning and use the buses or subways.

My dreams that night were crazy, mixed up things, most of them involvin' me and the milkmaid and a nice, soft bed. I woke up feelin' like I was a randy teenager again, and wondered just what the hell was going on. No dame affected me like this, moonin' over a photograph and not carin' if she was a can-opener.

I decided to take the boiler to Harry's Garage, now that I had the berries to pay for repairs. We chugged our way there, and I parked in the lot.

I saw some cat working in a beater even older than mine. "Hey, Harry around?" I called out. The cat straightened out, wiping his greasy hand on a rag. "Harry stepped out for a minute. Can I help you?"

It was then I got the shock of my life.

The guy was the same guy in the photo Martin Belden brought to my place. Tom Delanoy. But if he, his wife and Trixie pinched The Scarlet Swan, what was he doing workin' as grease monkey?

"My heap is actin' up. I brought it so old Harry could take a look. Jim Frayne, I been a customer here for years. And you are…"

"Tom Delanoy. Harry just hired me a couple of days ago. Sorry about the greasy digits."

I took a good measure of the man with the friendly smile. He didn't look like no bunco artist to me. He reminded me of a rube from a small town who was about to get fleeced by real goons. "Sure, sure. You been in the Big Apple long?"

"No." Delanoy relaxed a little against beater. "My wife and I moved down here from upstate around the same time I got the job here."

"It must be quite a change for you."

"No, I worked as a chauffeur and maintained cars for some rich guy who has more money than brains. I drove him down here quite a lot. The little woman and I had to get out of there."

"Had to?"

"Yeah. My wife was a maid and the people who we worked for had two sets of spoiled brat twins. Celia couldn't take the kids or the missus screaming constantly. The guy was no great shakes either." Tom shook his head. "It was leave or lose our sanity."

Harry returned before I could ask any more questions. "Hey, Delanoy, I ain't payin' you to stand around jawin' with two-bit dicks," he yelled with a smile. "What's up, Frayne?"

"Droppin' off Betsy for a few repairs," I smiled back. "Finally got some help, huh?"

I walked with Harry to the lot where I parked and handed him the key. "Yeah, the kid is good. Came lookin' for a job. Kid's got magic in his hands." He sighed. "You know, you really oughta get rid of this Flivver."

I patted Betsy's rusty fender, hoping it wouldn't fall off. "I'm attached to the old girl. Give me a call when you figure out why she's burpin' and fartin'."

"I'll have Tom give her the once over."

"You really have that much faith in him?"

"Definitely. See that old pickup?" Harry pointed out a meticulously restored Chevy pickup. "Kid came drivin' up in that, said he did all the work. It didn't hurt that he had all his possessions and his pretty little wife in the car. She's in the family way. I rented them the apartment above the garage here."

"Thanks, Harry. See ya."

I walked off down the street, digestin' all the information Harry and Tom provided. Delanoy couldn't have driven two getaway cars, and he and his wife were certainly not livin' high on the hog. I figured the timin' was coincidental.

Which left me with one main suspect.

Trixie Belden.

I needed to talk to Martin Belden right away.

Alone.

8888888888

Marge was already in the office when I made it back. "Long night?" she sniped. She knew about Dot, didn't like her much.

"It wasn't what you think. I been out workin' the case."

Yeah, nothin' like surprising the old babe! "Marge, contact Martin Belden. See if you can get him to meet me at Loriot's Delicatessen in Harlem. Alone. I have some information and I need to chew it over with him." I figured none of Lynch's men would be in Harlem, not no way. Not unless they were slummin' at the Cotton Club or one of the other, similar places where swells and cons liked to rub elbows with the lower classes.

A few minutes later, she strode into my office. "Mr. Belden says he'll meet you there at eleven AM. So what happened with Syphilis Susie?"

Marge always did have a way with words.

"Geez, Marge, can't a guy have even one shred of a private life?"

"Not when the guy is you, and his receptionist is me. Dish it, Boss. She dump you for someone with deeper pockets?"

"No. I dumped her. She wanted more. I thought we had a deal," I whined like a baby.

"See, that's where you mugs always get it wrong. She says she wants no strings, but she got the biggest ball of yarn hidden behind her back to knit you right into her life. How'd the chippie take it?"

"She would've bumped me off if she got my piece."

"Ah, no great loss there."

"I dropped Betsy off at Harry's, so I'm going to grab the bus or the tube to Harlem. See ya later."

888888888

A few minutes before eleven, I walked into Loriot's. "Hey, man, where ya been?" Henri Loriot came over with his parents during the Big War. They established this little spit of a place and made it successful. As Loriot once said to me, there was nothin' for them in Haiti except voodoo and poverty.

"You know how it is, Frenchy." I did a job for him, found out one of his cousins was stealin', and now the man was eternally grateful. I parked my butt at one of the tables, and he brought me a nice, hot, cup of joe.

"Meetin' a client?"

"Yeah, some swell who doesn't know any better." We both laughed and looked up when an ill-at-ease Martin Belden entered the establishment.

"My client," I stage whispered.

Belden wasn't quite as dressed to kill as when I met him in my office. Still, he stood out in this working-class joint. "What'll you have, sir?" Frenchy asked.

"Uh, coffee, black." Belden sat across from me, and that was one point for him. At least he drank his coffee like a man. "What did you want to see me about, Mr. Frayne? And why alone?"

There was another point. No beatin' around the bush. "I thought it would be best to have a meetin' without Mrs. Belden here," I replied. "I thought maybe you might have some information you don't want to relay in her company."

Frenchy popped the coffee on the table and beat it. Belden flushed and began to sweat. Yeah, he knew somethin'.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Listen, man, I know about your father-in-law. Maybe you didn't want to say anythin' in front of your wife because she could go back and tell her father."

Belden took a sip of java. "Diana doesn't have anything to do with… with that part of her father's life. She thinks he made it big on some stupid invention. He did, until he got involved with the mob."

"So how did a guy whose ancestors floated over on the Mayflower get involved with a rich man's daughter?"

"Our families have known each other forever. My dad helped finance Ed Lynch's invention. Something about a vacuum tube coating for a television, some contraption to allow you to see moving pictures in your house. It's the one that took him from near poverty to wealth. I've loved my wife since forever. She didn't used to be so hoity-toity. She's only doing it because her parents expect her to be like the society dames we meet."

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Belden?"

Belden considered his joe and looked back up at me. "I know you think I'm a kept man. Lots of people think that. I'm not, though. I have a Master's Degree in Business. Ed Lynch may be great at inventions, but he knows next to nothing about business. I'm the head of his legitimate business operations."

"I tracked down Tom and Celia Delanoy." I made the announcement abruptly, to see what he'd do.

"Already? Where… where are they?"

"They had nothin' to do with any of the scams. I'd bet my last dollar they don't even know The Scarlet Swan is missin'. They just wanted to get away from your in-laws."

Belden blew out a breath. "I can see that. They let the younger kids run wild, and Sharon Lynch is a martinet with the staff."

"So that leaves your sister. Trixie."

"My sister wouldn't take the Swan. She's been Diana's friend since the first day they met in school. Besides, she hates all that female frippery. She can ride like a dream and shoot with the best of them."

"Maybe she needed money for somethin'. A bangtail."

"A racehorse? No, Honey, our sister-in-law, has a large stable and Trix can ride whenever she wants. Listen, I don't think Di honestly thinks that Trixie took The Scarlet Swan. But, I'm afraid she might trip up in front of her father and…"

"And Lynch will bump her off," I finished. "It looks bad. Her doing a midnight flit and the ice missin'."

"I know where she is," Belden announced abruptly.

"What?"

"Well, I think I know where she is," he amended. "I can't go and check, because I don't know if Lynch's men would tail Diana and me. I gave 'em the slip coming down here. I took the subway and changed a couple of times."

I was pretty impressed with the cat. "So where do you think your sister is?"

"She's singing at the Carousel Club under the name of Bee Johnson. Beatrix is her full given name and Johnson is our mother's maiden name."

"She ain't exactly hidin' out." This could be dangerous for her, especially if Lynch got a whiff of the con. His goons would ensure she'd end up in a Chicago coffin.

"I don't think our mother would recognize her," Belden said dryly. "Trix is a natural beauty. She… she never gave much thought to dressing up. Far from it! But man, when she does, she's gorgeous. And now she's taking it to an entirely different level. I drove by the club and saw her picture outside."

"How'd you find out where she is in a big city like this?"

"She sent me a coded message."

"A coded message?" What the hell was I getting myself into?

Belden looked away and reddened. "When we were kids, Trixie used to get us involved in all these mysteries. She should have been a detective if she wasn't a girl. She is great."

A female gumshoe? Nah. "How does codin' fit in? She a spy?"

"Nothing like that. It was one of our mysteries. We found an old alphabet that used stick figures instead of letters. Trixie is a do-gooder, ya know?" Belden relaxed into the tale. "We were holding a charity event, auctioning off items people donated. A local gang of thugs decided they'd scram with the goods. Trixie was there, making out tags, and they were holding her hostage. She was printing SOS on the tags and stuck them in my pocket when we stopped to check on her."

"Pretty smart for a dame."

"She sent me a message in the code we discovered saying she's okay and she's investigating something at the club. She sings scat and torch songs like… like Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald. I think Trixie found out something about The Scarlet Swan. She doesn't realize it's not like when we were kids, all having each other's back. She's alone out there, Frayne. Alone."

The Carousel Club. A high-end clip joint. They had a cover charge, and the booze was expensive. A too-cute décor of carousel horses gave the club its name. They were scattered around the room with their dead expressions, nothin' at all like a cheerful merry-go-round.

"All right, Belden. I'll make a visit there, see if I can talk to your sister. I'll let ya know. Better for us to leave separately." I wasn't taking any chances.

Belden shoved a bill on the table. "You might need this," and walked out. I glanced down. Another C-note. Sweet. Now to get home and lay out my fancy duds.

I was finally going to see my milkmaid in the lovely, warm flesh.

8888888

Later that evening, I made my way over to the Carousel Club. I guess every new joint that opens up in the city needs some sort of an angle. My own opinion was that wooden horses weren't it. But then again, I ain't got a couple hundred thousand.

I was seated just before showtime. I took the time to glance around the room. Lots of little tables, seating four at the most. One side was taken up by a rather largish stage. The backdrop was sort of green jungle; I suppose that's where the club owners thought carousel horses resided in their off hours.

The clientele was a mixture of swells with serious dough and their ladies – legitimate and otherwise. Some tourists who wandered in, and hep cats and kittens who came in strictly for the music. I wondered if little Miss Johnson was as good a singer as her brother had boasted.

All I needed was another Dot Murray in my life, laceratin' my eardrums.

I ordered a gin and tonic and had just taken my first sip when the lights flickered, advisin' the patrons the show was about to begin. The stage went black, and soft lights lit up the band. They played a little introductory note and then she walked out on stage.

And my mind went totally, completely, irrefutably blank.

Before I even had a chance to reconcile the photo Belden showed me in my office with the sex kitten on stage, she opened her mouth and began to sing.

You know, when you're in a nightclub or joint, there's always a lot of background noise. People talkin', glasses clinkin', waitresses takin' orders. Let me tell you, there was dead silence. Everybody's attention was riveted to the stage and the sexy, raspy rendition of Black Coffee.

I don't know how she did it. I really don't. But damn, she made that old Ella Fitzgerald song hers. And I seriously doubted if any guy would leave her at home waitin'. Trixie sang a couple more songs after that and left the stage to thunderous applause. No wonder the place was packed.

My waitress came over to freshen my gin and tonic. "Hey, kitten, can you give this note to Miss Johnson?"

"Sure I will. But don't get your hopes up. She gets lots of these little love notes every night. Never takes anybody up on them."

"Well, now, if I was a bettin' man, I bet you she would come out to talk to me." Yeah, the doll would. Because I had the magic words. And they weren't please or thank you.

Ten minutes later, she approached my table. Trixie Belden was still wearing that dress, the one she wore on stage. It was black, strapless, and made of some satiny material my fingers itched to stroke. Who am I kiddin'? I wanted to get her and all that soft-looking naked skin in bed. Back of a car. In a nice little house with a white picket fence.

Hell. Where did _that_ come from?

"Mr. Frayne? Bee Johnson. You needed to see me?" I stood as she approached my table and introduced herself. She still had on those long, past the elbow gloves and I'd give anythin' to see her peel 'em off. She was one hot tomato.

Up close, I could see the concern clouding her intense blue eyes. I knew why. The note I sent back had two words on it. Martin Belden.

"Please sit down, Miss Johnson." I could see all the swells and the goons lookin' at me, thinkin' I was the luckiest palooka in the joint.

"It's dangerous to talk to me," she whispered in that soft, sexy rasp that went straight to my… well, you know where. It was more dangerous for her to talk to me. Because I was barely keepin' my caveman in check.

"Yeah." I glanced around. "Too many interested eyes here."

She nodded and smiled as if we were having the most scintillatin' conversation. She threw her head back and laughed, her curls bouncing and catchin' the light. I wondered if I tugged on one, would it bounce back?

"I have a car parked down the street. Old blue Ford. I'll be waitin' for you. We can talk there."

She nodded her head and rose to leave. "See you in twenty." She sashayed away, and damn if the dish didn't wiggle that keister for my benefit.

I settled my tab and hoofed it to the boiler I borrowed from Marge, hoping Trixie wouldn't blow. I needn't have worried. There was a knock on the passenger window. I leaned over and opened the door handle, and the doll slid right on in.

And here was my milkmaid.

She wasn't in some flashy dress. She didn't have on stage makeup. Her hair was scraped back into a riotously curlin' ponytail. There wasn't one speck of makeup on her beautiful face. Trixie had on a pair of cuffed denim jeans that outlined her gams to perfection, and a red plaid shirt that did nothin' at all to hide that rack.

"You weren't kidding when you said this hunk of junk was old," she sniped.

"Mine's in the shop, and in worse condition than this. Listen, sister, I'm going to drive to an old alleyway I know so we can talk. How'd you blow off the stage door johnnies?"

"They're looking for Bee Johnson, not some country hick who leaves by the kitchen entrance. I better warn you, Mr. Frayne, try anything fresh, and you'll be singing soprano in the Vienna Boys' Choir."

"Don't flip your wig, doll. I just want to talk."

I drove around for a while, makin' sure we weren't being tailed by the coppers or any of Lynch's goons. I knew he had some of the cops on the take. He had to for them to keep lookin' the other way. When she began to fidget in her seat, I turned into an alley near the garage and turned off the car.

The only glow was from a streetlight, and she turned to me. "All right. What's this all about?"

"Your brother and his wife hired me to find you and the Delanoys. They seem to think you stole The Scarlet Swan. I'm a private investigator."

Trixie's peepers grew round and wider if that was possible. "What? Tom and Celia Delanoy? They're as honest as the day is long."

I noticed she hadn't said anythin' about herself. "I know that, kitten. I found them."

"I didn't even know they left the Lynches' employ. I guess they finally got fed up with all the nonsense." She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes.

"What about you, doll? Did you boost the ice? Your sister-in-law seems to think you did." I waited for her vehement denial.

"Of course, I did. But not to sell it or because I was jealous. I have it right here." She turned a little from me, reached into her bra and pulled out The Scarlet Swan. Even in the dim light, it sparkled plenty.

Now, wasn't this a Chinese angle? I expected the doll to deny everything, give me some good excuse, and then I could dump the case, and we'd do the horizontal mamba.

"Why'd you boost it, kitten?"

Trixie looked at the gem in her hand, almost with a sad expression. She looked back up into my mug and decided. "Because it's not real. Oh, the little diamonds are. But not The Scarlet Swan. Somebody has already stolen and replaced the Swan, and I'm going to find out who and get it back."

You coulda knocked me over with a feather. Still, I wasn't totally buyin' her rap. "How can you tell that?" The ice looked pretty sparkly to me.

She rolled those intense blue peepers. "Because I grew up with Honey Wheeler, that's why. She and her mother have plenty of jewelry. Honey taught me to tell the difference between genuine and paste. Diana doesn't know how to. This is a very good imitation. But that's all it is."

"Your sister-in-law told me only she and her husband knew the combination to the vault."

"She would think that! She's a fat-head at times. I can guarantee you her old man knows the combination. I even knew it because she didn't care who was there when she opened it up. Diana talks out loud when she's turning the dial. You know, 24 left, 16 right. That sort of thing."

I was beginnin' to believe this whole case was bad news. "Who do you think made a clean sneak with the ice?"

"The way I figure it, it could have been either Ed Lynch himself or Di's fake uncle."

"Why would Lynch snatch The Scarlet Swan?" it didn't make sense to me. And fake uncle?

Trixie shrugged those slender shoulders. "It's worth a ton of lettuce, there, Mr. PI. Maybe Lynch is spending more than he can take in."

"What's the deal with the fake uncle?"

"Sharon Lynch has a brother, Montgomery Wilson. They lost touch, and after Ed Lynch hit it big, she wanted to find him. Instead, he found her. He was a real creep. Always interfering in the family, and I think that's why Sharon Lynch turned into such a snob. Anyway, I figured out that the Monty Wilson staying with the Lynches wasn't Mrs. Lynch's brother. He was a bunco artist, playing the Lynches for dough."

"How'd you figure that out?" This dame was somethin' else, I tell you.

"The Lynches have a room with family portraits. Sharon Lynch's parents both have blue eyes. Sharon Lynch has blue eyes. Monty Wilson, the fake Monty Wilson, had brown eyes. Two blue-eyed parents can't have a brown-eyed child. Therefore, he wasn't her brother."

Man, the doll made it sound like figurin' all that out was duck soup. Maybe she should become a gumshoe. "Who was the fake brother?"

"A con, Tilney Britten. He met the real Montgomery Wilson out there in Arizona. Wilson talked about how he and his sister lost touch when they were kids, and their parents died. Britten put two and two together and figured he'd become the long lost brother."

"Didn't the Lynches contact the coppers?"

"Sure. Britten almost kidnapped me when he realized I put two and two together. He skipped town before he could get arrested. He vowed to get revenge on them and me. I have no doubt he probably could have boosted The Swan and left evidence that would incriminate me."

"Seems a little far-fetched." Like some Hollywood mystery the writers cooked up.

"Yeah, well…" she just let her voice trail off. "If Ed Lynch stole The Scarlet Swan, he'd need to get rid of it. Some of his closest associates hang out at the Carousel Club. I figure I can keep my eyes and ears open there. And I know for a fact Britten has a thing for torch and scat. He's been in the club at least once since I was there."

"You're takin' a chance. He might recognize you, baby."

She smiled then. "No. He'd recognize this." She waved a hand in front of her face. "Not Bee Johnson."

"Why'd you send the coded message to your brother?"

"I want to keep him and Di away from the Carousel Club. If you read Suzy Knickerbocker, you'd see she is always reporting on where they are, usually a clip joint like that."

"So, what do you do when you're not hot on the trail of a con man or singin' like Ella?"

Trixie gave me another measuring glance. "I'm a writer. I write mystery books."

I barked out a laugh. "Mystery books? Ever get any published?" Oh, yeah, like this little milkmaid had the nuts to write mysteries.

I could tell she was stung by my laughter. She sniffed once and tossed her head. "Ever hear of Jack Stallone?"

Of course, I heard of Jack Stallone. He wrote about hard-boiled PIs, cops, chippies, and the best thrillers that ended up on the New York Times list. "Yeah, so?"

"I'm Jack Stallone. That's my pen name. The publisher didn't think anyone would buy detective novels written by a woman. So we just changed my gender and my name."

"You wrote _Easy Street_? _Lead Poisoning_?" I couldn't have been more astonished if she said she was a burlesque dancer in her spare time.

"Yes and yes."

"Then who is the guy on the back cover?"

"So, Mr. PI, you admit you're a fan." Trixie gave me a smug smile. "The guy on the back is some schlub over in Europe. Doesn't speak a word of English, lives in a little town in France."

This chick had me rattled. Not only did she sing like a dream, she was gutsy and smart. I was falling for her, and hard. "How can I help? Your brother is worried about you."

"You could nose around, see if anything is out on the street about Lynch losing a lot of cabbage. Or if anyone that fit's Britten's description is trying to sell The Swan. Or bragging about having it. He might just want to hold onto it for a while." Trixie stuffed the necklace back in her shirt. "He's about five-nine or so, brownish hair and brown eyes. Skinny little creep, but strong."

"Okay. We need to set up a regular meet."

"Just show up at the Carousel Club after my sets and send me a note. We'll meet in the car."

I wasn't sure I should let her out on her own like that. "Where are you livin'?"

"The Pennsylvania Hotel. You know, _Pennsylvania 6-5000_." Trixie grinned then, a real smile that made me want to take her back to her hotel and start cookin' with gas. "It's a big place, right across from Penn Station and there are a lot of comings and goings. Nobody pays much attention to Bee Johnson. And I know for a fact the Lynch Mob uses the Waldorf-Astoria."

This dame was brilliant. Hidin' out by not hidin' at all. Still, I didn't feel comfortable with her being alone. I wanted to offer my place, no strings attached, but there was always the chance Lynch's goons were keeping an eye out there. And suddenly, I could not resist that smile. I reached out and tugged on one of her curls that escaped her ponytail. It was soft and silky, and it was strangely enjoyable to watch it bounce back.

"Lemme get you back to the hotel. It's getting late, or rather early."

All she did was nod her agreement. "Drop me off a half-block away," she ordered. We drove in silence until I got her back to the hotel and pulled over. One thing you have to admit about the Big Apple: it really is the city that never sleeps. There were still quite a few people comin' and goin'.

My singing Shamus leaned over and shocked me by laying one on me. Her lips were soft and warm, and when she swiped her tongue on my lower lip, well, I couldn't resist the temptation to go deeper. The temperature in Marge's old boiler was climbin', and I don't mean from the weather. "Thanks," she said when we broke for air. "See ya." She paused and touched my hair, and I felt it right down to my toes. "I always did have a thing for red hair."

She let herself out of the beater, and I watched until she entered the lobby. She might have looked like a guy from behind in her shirt and jeans, but those hips swayed in time to music only she could hear.

And she tasted like heaven.

Man, I'm in real trouble here.

I don't recall much of the drive to return the car to Marge's spot. I left the keys under the visor like I always did, and hoofed it home, still dizzy with kissin' that dame. My fingers itched to bury themselves in that soft hair, and I wanted to taste her again.

 _Everywhere._

88888888

"Well, look at what the cat dragged in," Marge sniped when I finally made it in to the office.

"Don't blow a fuse, Marge. I was workin' last night."

"Yeah, workin' that floozy, Dot."

"You're bustin' my chops over nothin'. I was on the case. I already found the ex-chauffeur and maid. They had nothin' to do with the heist. I met with our other suspect and got an earful." And a mouthful, but it was nix on telling Marge anythin' about that smooch.

"We'll shoot the breeze later, but you have Mrs. Hudon coming in for the report on Mr. Hudon. Fifteen minutes, Boss. And twenty messages from your floozy."

"I'm not in for Dot Murray. Ever." I hope the broad wasn't gonna become a problem. Damn.

Right on time, Marge was admittin' a pretty woman of about thirty-five. Typical New York doll. Workin' in a steno pool, dressed to the nines, and worried that her husband was cheatin' on her with one of the women in the bank where he worked on Wall Street. No rug rats, and I supposed that was a blessin'.

"Mr. Frayne, I can't say it's good to see you again." She offered her gloved hand.

"Mrs. Hudon. Have a seat and we'll discuss my findin's." There was a reason a box of Kleenex sat on one corner of my desk. As it was, Mr. Hudon was makin' whoopee with a co-worker. Except it was another guy.

Mrs. Hudon was shocked, but she didn't bust out a tear. No, she swore revenge on her cheatin' spouse. She muttered something about a knife and his johnson, making me shudder. I counseled against doing anything rash. "No wonder he never wanted any children."

She paid me, shook my hand again, and departed with the nice photographs of Mr. Hudon full-on mouth kissin' his "friend."

Such was the life of a PI.

Marge came bustin' through the door a minute later. "Dot called again. I told her you were working a case, but Boss, I think she's gonna dog you for a while. I wouldn't put it past her to show up here."

I put my head in my hands. "I hope not. That broad is gonna put me through the wringer."

Marge had the nerve to grin at me, and not in a nice way. "Gotta pay the piper. How'd it go last night?"

"Too early to tell and I got a few leads. I'm gonna go take a powder and grill Dan. He usually has his ear to the keyhole. Call the coppers if Dot shows up. I'm not sure if I'll be back, but I'll check in."

Then Marge did somethin' weird. She came over and gave me a hug. "Listen, Boss, you and I shoot the breeze a lot, tease each other. But I'm dead serious. Be careful out there. I don't want anyone bumping you off."

I patted her hand. "Me neither, Marge. Me neither."

888888888

I took the tube to Hell's Kitchen. It was a grimy bastion of crime, gangs and Irish families scrapin' by. My destination was St. Aloysius Cathedral. It was a swell name for a little Catholic church, almost dead center in the neighborhood. It had a tiny school attached to it where mostly neighborhood kids went to get schooled in religion and their ABCs.

Daniel Mangan was the priest there, a tough-talkin' mick who looked more like a professional palooka than a man of the cloth. He'd been a hell-raiser growin' up in the Kitchen, but his life took a 180 when an uncle took him under his wing. Now he was right back where he started from, headin' the parish like a not-so-benevolent crime boss.

We'd been pals for a long time, and I still shook my head when I thought about his choice of job. I thought for sure he'd end off bumped off in some grisly manner.

I figured Father Dan had his ear to the ground and I'd be able to pry some information out of him, at least about the Lynch side of things. As I approached the church, I realized Dan was probably hearing confessions.

And, holy mackerel, there was usually a line.

I went inside and sat in a pew until the last person entered the sacred booth. The church smelled of frankincense and boiled potatoes and onions. The last person making a confession was a little old broad, and she must have been in there for fifteen minutes.

I figured she must have iced someone.

She nodded at me as she went to do her penance. I entered the booth and knelt, waiting for the Dan to slide the little door that separated us. I didn't have long to wait.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." I could barely see his outline through the mesh, but I could see turn his head in surprise.

"Oh, I'm very sure you have, Jimmy-boy. The first one is you're not Catholic."

"Well, I still wanna get to Heaven."

"You're beyond redemption, you heathen. Besides, I already know all your sins. Wine, women, and song, though in your case it's more like gin, floozies, and dirty limericks," he snorted.

"I need to talk."

"Go do a Hail Mary and I'll be with you in a few minutes."

I followed him up the aisle and watched as he genuflected, crossing himself reverently. Then it was into the sacristy, where he hung up his vestments and lookin' more like the Dan I knew. Dressed in black and with that white collar, but not the completely holy man.

We went into the rectory, where Dan had his personal space. "Cup of joe?"

He didn't have to ask twice. He poured out a couple of cups from the percolator always simmerin' on his stove. It was java to grow hair on your chest, even if you were a broad.

He set the coffees down on the table, grabbed a chair and straddled it. "What brings you down to the fine halls of St. Aloysius?"

"Caught a case. A big one, too. I thought you might have some dirt, Father Dan."

He rolled his eyes. "Cut the Father Dan crap. You know I can't divulge any information I heard in the confessional."

"I ain't asking you to, although I'd really like to know what the lady that confessed before me confessed to."

"Mrs. O'Leary? She's got a crush on me. I'd think she'd confess to her cow setting the Chicago Fire if we didn't live in New York." He rolled his eyes. I was surprised to learn that lots of pious women crushed on their priests. "Whaddya need, Jimmy?"

"Any scoop you got on Edward Lynch and his goons."

I could see Dan's eyes widen at the name. "Lynch, huh?" He took a sip of joe. "You're getting in some mighty dangerous waters, Jimmy."

"Yeah, comes with the job. Like I said, I got a case."

"I haven't heard much. A couple of his, ah, associates are parishioners here. Typical ball-breakers, more brawn than brains."

"You hear anything about Lynch needing extra cabbage?"

"No. Lemme tell ya, Jimmy. A lot of the talk around town is nothing but flash. Ed Lynch is a wealthy man going through a mid-life crisis. You know the type; upstanding guy, suddenly turns fifty and needs to prove he's a man. He's doing it by dabbling a little in crime."

"Yeah, well, he also sees Dot occasionally at the Six Aces."

"Part of it. The neighborhood is changin', Jimmy. We got these Italians movin' in, and they are ruthless. Prostitution, numbers, loan sharking. Lynch is penny ante stuff compared to them."

"Italian mob, huh."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I told you, it's a case, and I'm eliminatin' suspects." I trusted Dan's information because I trusted Dan. I didn't mean to, but I blurted out somethin'. Damn. Couldn't keep my mouth from flappin'.

"I met a girl."

Dan raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, so? You meet lots of girls." He didn't have to add most of them were uh, easy.

"This one is different."

Dan didn't say anythin', waited for me to go on. "She's smart, beautiful, blonde and a good girl. She's also a suspect in my latest case."

"Then she can't be that good."

"No, she is, Danny. Much too good for me."

"Listen, Jimmy. I've known you for a long, long time. I know your heart, and I know your mind, maybe even better than you do. You put on this hard persona because that's what you think you need to survive. Maybe all you need is her."

"That may be so, Dan. The problem is, does she need me?"

88888888

I rode the tube back to the office, thinkin'. Dan spilled some good information about the state of the Lynch Gang. I crossed Ed Lynch off as a suspect. Talkin' to Dan was better than talking to those head doctors. No wonder he was a good preacher. He had a way of, y'know, upliftin' you.

Even if you were a broken-down gumshoe barely paying the rent.

I stopped and bought a couple sandwiches and Cokes for Marge and me and hoofed it up the stairs. "Hey, Marge, I brought us some lunch." I was concentratin' on getting the door open when that odor made me look up. _Evening in Paris_. I'd know that cloying scent anywhere.

Dot Murray was sitting with a sour-faced Marge, waitin' for me. "She wouldn't scram," Marge said. Loudly.

"You don't really want me to go, do you, sugar?" Dot unfurled herself from the chair and pressed up against me.

It gave me the heebie-jeebies.

"Let's go into your office, baby. We don't need your dragon breathing fire over me."

"I thought I told you it was over." I stood my ground in the verbal sparring but stepped back from her.

"It ain't over, Jim. You'll come crawling back." Dot's jaw just about dropped to the floor as a new idea bloomed. "You're seein' someone else, aren't you? Who is she, Jim? I'll rip her apart." She paced away from me, turned on Marge. "You know everything that goes on in his life. Who's he seeing? Is it that Trixie?"

"Little Red Riding Hood. Now get out of here. He asked you to not to come here. Whaddya need, an engraved invitation?"

"Is she as good in bed as I am, Jim? Or does she just lay there like a board?" Dot's face was ugly with contempt. The lines smoothed out as her eyes filled with tears. "I… I didn't want to tell you like this, Jim. I'm going to have a baby, I'm a month along, and it's yours."

The broad was gettin' desperate. "That's a load of crap, and you know it, Dot. I used protection every time with you. I haven't been with you for over two months. If you really have a bun in the oven, it ain't mine."

Marge interrupted then. "If you don't leave, I'm gonna call the coppers, you two-bit floozy."

"This ain't over, Jim. Not by a long shot. And you," she turned to Marge. "I'll make sure you don't have a job when Jim and I get together, witch."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Marge gave her the bum's rush. She locked the door after Dot left and opened up a couple windows to get the stench of her overpowerin' perfume out of the office.

Not like Trixie's smell. Trixie smelled like happiness, the sun on my face, and flowers bloomin' in my soul. She could make a mint if she bottled it.

"So, is what the floozy said true? You found someone else?" Marge sat on the side of her desk and looked at me.

I couldn't meet her eyes, and I couldn't bluff my way out. I could feel the spots of color burnin' on my cheeks. "You know, my personal life isn't any of your business."

"Yeah, yeah, since when? If you have me kicking your floozies out of the office, then your point is not valid."

"I don't wanna jaw about it, Marge."

Her soft gray eyes widened. "You did meet someone!" She wagged a finger in my puss. "She better be worthy of you, Boss. That's all I'm going to say for now. Now get in your office so I can get some work done."

I shut the connectin' door, took off my hat and jacket, and tossed 'em on the client chair. My chair looked awfully invitin', so I took it up on its temptin' offer. I plopped my feet up on my desk and leaned back, hands behind my head.

Needed to clear the old noggin so I could concentrate on the case. This Trixie dame was making me dizzy with longin'. She talked a good story, but I wouldn't be the first gumshoe taken in by a sexy broad. It was an occupational hazard.

So where was I with this job? I eliminated the chauffeur and his old lady. Lynch was a long shot, accordin' to what Father Dan spilled. The two remaining suspects were the doll I wanted to get to know better, and some bunco artist she claimed was the real crook.

Even though she had what she said was the fake Scarlet Swan tucked into her very nice rack.

I'm behind the eight-ball on this one. If I prove it's Trixie, she'll be coolin' her heels in The Big House for a long time. But, why would she lie about writing the Jack Stallone mysteries? About anythin'?

A whole lot of dough can do that to you, though.

Trixie said that Tilney Britten liked scat and torch. I figured I'd make the scene at the Carousel Club again. The question I asked myself was I goin' there to find this Britten guy, or was I goin' there to see her?

888888888

Bee Johnson was just finishin' a set when I arrived. She saw me, and a little while later I was bein' escorted by the cigarette girl to Bee's dressing room. "You're a good-looking guy, even if you do have red hair," the babe informed me. "Bee's lucky you're her boyfriend."

"Hey, baby."

"Hi, handsome." Trixie twined herself around me and lifted her face for a smooch. I happily obliged as the death stick hawker quit the room.

"Got lipstick on your mouth," Trixie told me, her voice kinda breathless. She picked up a Kleenex and wiped it off. "I don't allow gentlemen back here as a rule, so I had to make something up. Britten is here tonight."

"I met with my informant. I don't think Lynch has anything to do with the theft. Accordin' to what the snitch blabbed, Lynch is small potatoes. The Irish are losin' ground to the Italians. And they're vicious." She was still close to me and damn, I just wanted to lick all that red off her lips.

"So, that leaves Britten." Trixie looked into my eyes, and I let the blue engulf me. "And me."

I wanted to shout, to proclaim to the world, _not you_. Not Trixie.

My voice was hoarse. "Can you point him out to me?" She nodded once, and I followed her to the side of the stage. "He's the one next to the pink and black horse. On the left."

I took a gander at the dip. He was sittin' alone at a table, draggin' on a butt. He might have been dressed in glad rags, but it didn't hide the bum within. The waitress brought him a new drink, and he ran a familiar hand on her keister. Even from this distance, I could tell the dame didn't much appreciate his familiarity.

"He's got it on him," Trixie whispered. "The Scarlet Swan. He's carrying it around with him."

"How do you know that?"

"He lives in a flophouse in the Bowery. Apparently, he bamboozled one of the girls into going home with him. When she saw his place, she jumped right back into the subway. No way he'd leave something as valuable as the Swan there."

"So whaddya wanna do?" It was too crowded for me to knock him out and grab the authentic ice.

"I'm going to ask him backstage after my next set and steal it back. I'm going to substitute the paste one that's in the necklace I have. He's only carrying around The Swan."

"Trixie, that's too dangerous. He might recognize you, and you said he tried to kidnap you. He might try to bump you off." What the hell was wrong with this dame?

We walked back into her dressing room, arguing in whispers. "It's not as if we can just ask him for it back," she hissed.

"He might think you're askin' him back here for… for a good time." I amended what I was going to say.

She turned to me, laughter in those stunnin' eyes. "Jim, I grew up on a farm. I learned all about the birds and the bees at a very early age." As we gazed at each other, it grew uncomfortably hot.

And I knew what that innocent, yet sultry desire that bloomed in her peepers meant. As much as I wanted to do the horizontal mamba with her, she wanted to do the same with me.

Damn this case.

I just couldn't resist the invitation. I slid my arms around the doll, bent down and ravished that red, red mouth again. This time, I slid my mitts down on her keister and pressed her forward so she could feel the effect she was havin' on me.

I half expected her to pull away in disgust, but my Trixie pressed even closer. And then neither of us could think at all, right up until the knock on her door. "Five minutes, Miss Johnson."

We broke the kiss, or should I say a bunch of kisses. Her lipstick was smeared, and I knew it was spread over my puss, too. I wiped it off while she fixed herself up in the vanity mirror. Both of us were breathin' like the coppers were chasin' us down an alley.

"I'll be out there watchin' you, baby."

And I was, a table or two over from the mark. Tilney Britten. He looked like a weasel, acted like a chump. The lights dimmed a bit to signal the floor show was beginning and there she was. In an amazin' black dress that outlined every delectable curve.

It wasn't Ella she was singing this time. It was Cole Porter, _Night and Day_. A nice song sung by Fred Astaire to Ginger Rogers in the movies… but, man. Her voice made it sultry, sexy and she was singin' it to me.

 _Me_ , James Winthrop Frayne II.

Trixie stepped off the stage and wandered into the audience, her powerful voice fillin' the room and makin' men and the women they were with, want. When she neared me, man, it was all I could do not to reach out and grab her. I wanted to hide her away from all those predatory eyes.

And then all hell broke loose.

The mood was broken by a scream, so high pitched that I'm sure only dogs and bats could hear the upper range. Dot Murray, soused and in a rage, broke away from the bouncer, headin' straight for my table.

"You rat bastard! So this is the roundheels who you're seein' on the sly!" She charged at Trixie with blood in her eye and murder in her heart. And her hand. She was waving around a gat.

Someone screamed, "She's got a gun!" Panicked patrons began to stream for the exits and duck under tables. I had to protect my Trixie, damn The Scarlet Swan and anything else. I went for Dot, low and fast. Too fast, because we hit a table that slammed into Trixie. She tumbled into Britten's table knocking it, him, and her to the floor.

That's all I saw before wrestlin' with Dot, trying to pry the gun out of her hands. She was pretty messed up, and I knocked it away. After a minute or so, I had her pinned. "I love you, Jimmy," she was wailin', and I stared into her faded eyes. She looked like she was hopped up on somethin' and I silently thanked the heavens for gettin' me out of her clutches.

Someone must have used the blower to contact the coppers because there were more of them there than I had ever seen. One of them pulled me off her, while several more were interviewin' the remaining patrons and staff.

"I think the gun is over that way, it flew out of her hand when I tackled the broad," I said.

Dot was cryin' and incoherent and not talkin'. "What's going on?" the officer asked me.

"She charged in here wavin' the gat around and threatened Tr… Bee Johnson, the singer. Thought I was seein' her. I'm Jim Frayne, PI, workin' on a case. The bimbo is Dot Murray, she works the Six Aces. Part time lousy chanteuse and pro skirt."

I looked for Trixie, but she vamoosed in the melee. Britten was still passed out on the floor. And next to him was a crushed, red object.

The fake Scarlet Swan.

And Trixie was missin'.

I gave my version of things to the Detective as Dot was hauled out handcuffed, crying, and screeching like a demented owl. I also gave him a little bit if an extra. "See that man passed out over there?"

"Yeah?"

"He's wanted for kidnappin' upstate. Name is Tilney Britten."

"Tilney Britten? I know that name." The dick turned to a uniformed copper. "Cuff him and get him down to the station. We're gonna have a nice little chat."

I shuddered a bit, gave my contact information, and almost had a little bit of pity for Mr. Britten. The cops were going to grill him all right. He'd be lucky if he didn't get out of the interrogation with a busted beak.

I made my way back to Trixie's dressin' room, hopin' she'd be there.

It was empty. Her glad rags were on the floor, and she was gone. All that was left was a big red heart on the mirror, drawn in lipstick and the outline of her lips.

I knew it was meant for me.

It was cold comfort, knowin' she split with The Scarlet Swan.

I hightailed it to The Pennsylvania Hotel. "Miss Bee Johnson?" I asked the bored desk clerk.

He checked the guest register. "She checked out about forty-five minutes ago," he informed me.

Great. Just great. She was on the lam with the ice. I dragged myself home, got a bottle of rotgut, and drowned my sorrows for the rest of the night.

Dames.

Can't trust any of 'em.

888888888888

I slunk back to the office, steeling my nerves for Marge's lecture. The sunshine hurt my bloodshot eyes, so I slipped on a pair of cheaters and tried to stroll in like I was on top of the world.

"About time you showed up," she said. "Mr. Belden will be here in fifteen minutes. Try to straighten yourself up, Boss." She audibly sniffed and turned away.

I did my best, and true to her word, she was showin' in Trixie's almost twin. He had a huge grin on his face and his blue eyes danced with the same merriment I had seen in his sister's.

"I can't thank you enough, Mr. Frayne. My wife is over the moon. I have to tell you, I had my doubts you had the ability to recover The Scarlet Swan. But you did. Diana found the necklace back in the vault this morning when she went to get a pair of earrings. There was a note with it, typewritten, and it said, 'You can thank Jim Frayne for getting this back to you.' I don't know how you did it, but thanks doesn't seem enough."

"It was my pleasure." My tongue felt thick, and my brain felt fuzzy. Trixie must have hightailed it back to that little town she was from and snuck The Scarlet Swan back to its proper restin' place.

And to think I had doubts.

Belden began to peel off C-notes from his roll of cabbage. "Here's an extra five hundred for your trouble." He got serious then. "I'm sure it had something to do with my sister. Thanks. Whatever you did, thanks."

"It wasn't her," I assured him. "It was Tilney Britten. He's in The Big House now, and I'm sure it'll be quite a long time before he gets out."

"Thanks again." Belden pumped my hand. "See you around."

"Yeah." Now don't that beat all?

Marge and I had a little celebration after work. A couple of beers and dinner. Later, I walked by Six Aces, but had no desire to go in. I wondered where Trixie was and what she was doin'. Who she was with. If she thought of my ugly kisser at all.

88888888888

The next two weeks were hell. Utter hell. Sure, we got a couple of referrals, and I had a few well-payin' jobs. And yeah, in one of them, the butler did it. I found I was wishin' Trixie was around so we could talk and laugh about it.

I just about made my mind up to go upstate, throw her over my shoulder and come back here, when Marge showed a little old lady into my office.

"Jim, this is Nell Dufresne."

"Oh, my word! Win!" Nell Dufresne cried out as soon as she caught sight of me. "Win!" She paled visibly.

My old man's name. Winthrop James Frayne. How the hell did she know him?

For a minute, I figured the old lady was a goner, she was that white and shaken. She pulled herself together and sat down. "What's your full name, Mr. Frayne?"

"James Winthrop Frayne II."

"It isn't you know," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your father changed your last name."

"No, I don't think so." Was this woman on goofballs or somethin'?

"Your father's name was Winthrop James Dufresne; your mother, Katie Vanderheiden Dufresne. D-U-F-R-E-S-N-E, pronounced do-frain. You see, my late husband's name was James Winthrop Dufresne. You were named after him. He was your father's uncle, your great uncle."

"I don't understand."

"Your father's parents died when he was a boy. Flu epidemic. Win came to live with James and me. He was like my own child. James and I couldn't have children. Your father met your mother in high school, and that was it. James and Win had an awful argument. James wanted Win to go to college, make something of himself. Win wanted to marry Katie. Your parents ran off and got married, and James disowned Win." Her eyes filled with tears. "It was the worst day of my life. Your parents left, and we never heard from them again. James repented after a while, but we couldn't find them. He died about seven years ago. Stepped into a nest of copperheads in the summerhouse. I guess the reason he couldn't find your parents is that they changed their last name. I promised him I would keep looking."

My head was whirlin' with all the information. "How do I know this isn't a big con?" I demanded.

Nell Dufresne reached into her handbag and pulled out a photo album. Many of the pictures were fading, but it was true. My parents, impossibly young, and Nell and my great Uncle James.

"Where are Win and Katie?" Nell asked, an eager note in her voice. "I need to see them."

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this. My father passed on about ten years ago of sepsis. My mother died a few years later of cancer."

Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm too late. They'll never know that James wanted to reconcile." She looked up at my kisser. "You look exactly like your father, you know. My Win."

"How did you find me?"

"I didn't. I was talking to my next-door neighbor, well, he used to be, and he recommended you. Mart Belden. I decided to come to the City." She reached up to touch my face. "It's remarkable."

"You live next door to Martin Belden?"

"I live at Ten Acres. Next to Mart's family home, Crabapple Farm."

"Ten Acres?"

"Jim, your great-uncle James… he was wealthy. We live in a Victorian-style mansion in Sleepyside, New York. I am wealthy. And you're our heir."

I felt like I was sucker punched in the gut. My name wasn't my name. I had a livin' relative, even if by marriage. An apparently rich livin' relative.

And her mansion was right next to Trixie's family's home. Mansion!

We jawed for a long time. I ended up promisin' to come upstate to visit as soon as my current case closed. Aunt Nell (wasn't that a pisser) touched my face again, gave me a peck on the cheek. "My driver is waiting for me," she said. "Now, Jim, I will hound you until you come to visit."

"I promise, Aunt Nell." Hell, nothing could keep me away. It wasn't her (well, not much) and it wasn't the cabbage. It was her next-door neighbor.

Marge and I talked about it for hours afterward. She left me sittin' there, still in a daze. I closed my eyes, thinkin' this all was a dream when a raspy voice sent a tingle right down my spine.

"And here I thought you'd try to find me, Gumshoe. I didn't make it difficult."

Trixie. My pulse leaped as my soul settled. I opened my eyes to her beautiful face with the laughin' eyes. She was leanin' against the door frame, and man, she was one hot tamale. She was wearing a modest dress with short sleeves, but damn, it outlined every single luscious curve.

"Trixie."

She rolled those hips as she approached me; I swear my jaw dropped and I began droolin' like a baby.

"James." She leaned against the edge of my desk, right in front of me. "So, who was the broad at the Carousel Club?"

It took a minute for my mind to clear enough to realize she was grillin' me about ol' whatsername. Oh, crap. "She was somebody I used to know."

Trixie tilted her head. "Sounds to me like she had a prior claim. And you more than knew her casually."

"No. Absolutely not. Never."

"You sure about that, gumshoe?"

"Positive. She was just… just someone to have…" Geez. How could I explain this?

I needn't have worried. My Trix was a smart one. "A little bit of sowing wild oats."

"Yeah. Yeah. That's all."

"Hmmm. Tilney Britten is in prison in Westchester County. He's going away for a long, long time. Cops transferred him up there last week."

"How did you…"

"Change the real with the fake? Easy. I had the fake one concealed in my bra. When I saw he was knocked out, I just switched them out. Then I skedaddled out of there. My last sight was you rolling around on the floor with that blonde hussy."

"I was tryin' to keep her from bumpin' you off."

Trixie shrugged, the light of amusement in her eyes. "So you say, Mr. Frayne."

"I went lookin' for you after. You weren't there. You weren't at your hotel."

"I went home. I needed to get The Scarlet Swan back into the vault."

"With a note. About me."

"Well, sure. I wouldn't have gotten that far that fast if you hadn't been on the job. Credit where credit is due, you know."

I wanted to reach out and pull her into my lap. Why were we jawin' about the case when there were more pleasurable pursuits to be had?

"Nell Dufresne came to see me earlier today because of your brother."

"Really? I feel so badly for her. She's been looking for her nephew for a long time. Did you take her case?"

"I didn't have to. I'm her nephew. Well, great-nephew."

I had the distinct gratification of watchin' those amazing eyes light with shock. "What?"

"Turns out that my father changed our last name to Frayne after the fight with his uncle. When I come up to visit her, I'll be right next door to your family's farm, little milkmaid."

"So you think I'm a farmer's daughter, do you?" She grinned at me, her soft, pink lips parting slowly and sending a jolt through my system.

I played along. "Yes." I stood and tugged at that one long curl of hers. My curl.

"All sweet and innocent, and you want to have your way with me in the hayloft, sir, don't you?"

Her soft voice sent another thrill through my abused body and my mind filled with pictures of us among the bales, doin' what comes naturally.

"Yeah. I do." My voice was hoarse and low, and I was sure my milkmaid had no idea how close to losing control I was.

Trixie stepped closer. "And what makes you think I would allow that, Mr. Frayne?" She placed her hand on my chest, and that was it.

"This," I growled. "This." I bent down and took her lips like I wanted to do from the first moment she sung into my life. It was not soft. It was hungry and passionate, ripe with want. Would I scare her away?

Not my Trixie. She pressed closer to me, her hands around my neck, fingers in my hair. Before you know it, we was on my desk, her pretty dress hiked up around her thighs as my fingers explored the contrast of her smooth, hot skin and the tops of her silky stockings.

I stopped kissin' to catch my breath. Her eyes were closed, and her face flushed. When she opened them to look into my peepers, I knew. She was still an innocent, and I was about to make love to her on my desk.

"Trixie, we need to stop." God, it was the most difficult thing I ever had to do, deny my body the release it wanted with this gorgeous, willin' babe. "You deserve more than your first time bein' on an old desk." I paused, a new idea bloomin' in my head.

"Let's go to Winchester. In Virginia. If we leave now, we can make it there by mornin'. We can get married there, no blood test or waitin' period."

"You… you want to _marry_ me?"

"I wanted to marry you from the first moment I laid my peepers on you." Yeah. This was right. We were right.

"What about clothes?"

Geez, she was too cute. "Baby, after the ceremony, I can guarantee that you won't need clothes." Then I remembered. My old boiler was in the shop. "Damn. I don't have my car."

"But I do. I have my Buick Super 8 right downstairs." She slid off the desk, straightened her dress. "Well? What are we waiting for, Gumshoe?"

Ten hours later, I slid a gold ring on her finger, and she slid one on mine. I think the City Clerk figured Trixie had a bun in the oven, but that wouldn't come until later.

We checked into one of those little motor hotels we passed along the way.

And I was right.

We didn't need clothes, not for a long, long time.

My office is in a nice building now in Midtown. Mart and Diana Belden talked me up in their circles, and I became the gumshoe to the swells.

The gold lettering on the door says Frayne and Frayne, Investigators. I had to hire a couple of extra guys, too, to help with the business.

We moved into Ten Acres with Aunt Nell, and I was sorry when she bit the big one a few months later. Between Aunt Nell, Trixie and my new kin by marriage, I lost a little of the roughness around the edges.

Just a little, mind you, because my wife can give as good as she gets. Every day I love her and our kids more than the day before. Who'd have thought, Jim Frayne with kids! It's like those science fiction movies they have coming out now.

Marge met some guy who owns a little shop on Glen Road down the street from us and ended up marryin' him. She's happy and still has a smart mouth.

My gorgeous Trixie still writes mysteries under the nom de plume of Jack Stallone and helps with investigations when the need arises.

However, she's busy with the kids and all, and lately, she's been talkin' about a mystery series for children with a female as the main character.

She says the first book is gonna be called _The Secret in the Mansion_. The biggest secret is going to be the tall, redheaded boy with freckles she finds trespassing, and how he and the girl fall in love as the solve other mysteries.

And who knows, maybe it will catch on.


End file.
